


Meditation on Abnormal Life

by LaughableLament



Series: SPN Masquerade [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Athletic Sex, Bottom Sam, Community: spn-masquerade, Don't copy to another site, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean, M/M, Manhandling, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, SPN Masquerade Round 7, Sparring, bunkerfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27670825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam’s in the gym. Glimmering. Reflected clean in the wall of mirrors and muddy in the glossy wood floor. Half his hair swept up in a rubber band. Thin tank top already soaked down his back.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: SPN Masquerade [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011297
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	Meditation on Abnormal Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ishura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishura/gifts).



> Fill for [this prompt](https://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/12846.html?thread=4553518#t4553518) from SPN Masquerade Round 7: "Preferably somewhere in s11-12, something where nothing nothing happens other than...growing old together. Like they can hunt or cook or research or spar or whatever but it also has a sort of domestic vibe to it."
> 
> Nonnie! This my jammmmm. <3

The only thing that irks Dean, to this day, about living the Bunker is that sometimes he loses track of Sam in here.

Library’s empty.

He’s developed a complex about hollering, seeing as the last time he stalked these halls yelling Sam’s name… Well…

He winces. Turns a corner and his eyes flick to the stubborn patch job covering the hole he made. More than a year, and for all his sanding and painting, the damned thing still shows; he should handle that.

Sam’s not in the showers or his bedroom.

Dean makes his way downstairs. Passes the garage entrance—he should check out those cars too. And the sink in Sam’s room has been backing up—fuckin’ hair. There’s a burned-out bulb in the map table, and God alone knows how Dean’s gonna get in there to replace it.

Sam’s in the gym.

End of the hallway, yellow light spills in an arc from the open door. Quiet. No jump rope zipping through the air, no rattle of weights or slap of boxing gloves against the heavy bag.

Dean licks his lips. Sammy’s been fucking around with some kind of Tai Chi or some shit from some YouTube channel. Dean encouraged him, “As long as I get to watch.”

And Sam laughed, and said, “Sure! Any time you wanna get up that early.” Kissed Dean’s nose. His nose!

But he puts that aside. Peeks around the door frame.

Glimmering. Reflected clean in the wall of mirrors and muddy in the glossy wood floor, Sam poses. Half his hair swept up in a rubber band. Thin tank top already soaked down his back. He moves through a form, concentrates. Pauses, checks his laptop propped on a chair and corrects his position occasionally. Dean stays low, so it takes Sam a minute to catch him creeping. When he does, his nostrils flare and his flushed face breaks in teeth and dimples.

“You wanna try?”

“Fuck no,” Dean slides in, cops a squat on the weight bench and picks up a dumbell from the floor.

“You came down here to work out in your boots and jeans.”

“Nope,” Dean says, “just stalking you.”

Sam shakes his sweaty head, shuts his laptop and grabs a towel. Dries his face and neck, between his collarbones. Dean has to adjust how he’s sitting. His mouth goes dry, and it’s nothing to do with the ten-pound curls he’s pulling.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” Sam goes full little-shit little brother. “Boxer battle! Well, boxer versus basketball battle. I’m-uh…” He points at his crotch.

 _Commando_. “Nice.” Boxer battle. Dean can’t remember the last time they did this. He starts unbuttoning while Sam kicks a rolled-up mat across to cover the floor. He gets in Dean’s space, makes like he’s helping him undress but he’s mostly interfering, putting his meat hooks all over Dean’s hips and chest. When he sinks to unlace Dean’s boots, Dean chuckles. “Y’know, you could just stay down there. Lose the boxers, skip the battle.”

“And you just sealed your own ass-whippin’.” Sam gets to work on Dean’s belt while Dean struggles with his shoes.

“Do you even remember how this shit got started? ’Cause I don’t.”

“Nah,” Sam says, and once Dean’s down to his socks and shorts, he backs up, strips his shirt. “I just remember we used to pretend to be pro wrestlers.”

“Oh my God, that king sized bed that one time?” Dean wriggles out of his socks.

“I thought Dad was gonna shoot us for sure.” Sam slaps his biceps, shakes his shoulders out.

Dean cracks his neck and knuckles. “You better say your prayers and eat your vitamins, Sammy.”

“Whatcha gonna doooo, brother?” Sam muscle-man poses as they round each other.

They tie up, collar-and-elbow, and Dean’s at an instant disadvantage, trying to grip Sam’s sweaty shoulders. He steps in, tries to duck under but Sam counters, gets him off-balance and almost scores a takedown. Dean falls back, nods. Head-fakes but Sam doesn’t bite. They move in, lock up again and this time Dean gets leverage, gets in Sam’s armpit and the little fucker just sits down. He curls up, protects Dean’s head underneath his arm, but had Sam been so inclined, Dean would’ve gone face-first.

“DDT!” Sam slaps his back.

Dean looks up from the mat, ears on fire. “That was _not_ a DDT.”

“Just because you can’t sell.” Sam swats him again. “Come on.” He lays back and rocks his hips up in the air. Flings himself to his feet and sticks a hand out. “One-nothin’.”

“Showoff,” Dean grumbles. “Test of strength?” He lets Sam haul him up.

“Sure.” Sam grins.

They square up, face-to-face and palm-to-palm, fingers interlaced. Sam’s height gives him a handicap, but Dean’s stubborn. Sam looms over him, bends his wrists back and Dean sticks a leg out behind him, drops to a lunge and gives himself a broader base. Sam bears down, tendons and veins show. Dean grits his teeth. Thighs tremble. Obviously, he’s gonna cheat, just gotta wait for Sam to believe, _maybe_.

And the fucker stomps on his foot.

“Ow!” Dean recoils and Sam wraps him up. Lays him out with a suplex and kneels across his lap.

“Two-oh.” Sam grinds, not a lot of fabric in between them.

Dean stiffens. Rumbles.

“Best three out of five?” Sam asks. “Or we done with this?”

Dean gets him by the hips and pulls him down, rubs up, makes Sam groan. “I dunno, Sammy, you seem pretty into this.”

Sam blankets him. Slides sweaty up his chest and kisses him. “Right… here on the mat?”

“Well, I could bend you over that weight bench I guess. Put you up against the mirror—”

“No way. You’ll drop me and we’ll both end up in traction.”

“I would never drop you, Sam.” Dean draws him down so their foreheads touch. Sam kisses him. Locks their hands palm-to-palm again and licks in Dean’s mouth.

Dean drinks him up. Tips back to expose his neck. Bucks his hips, keeps Sam rocking and groaning. Sam meanders, lips and tongue. Leaves a wet trail down Dean’s chest. He shivers. Arches into Sam and lolls his head to the side.

Bodies parallel the mirrored wall. Profile: Sam’s hunched over, hair in his face as he kisses Dean’s belly. Pale skin ripples, gleams, and shifts. Basketball shorts sag. Flimsy fabric slides between their thighs. Dean’s black boxer briefs stretch over his straining cock. Sam mouths him, ass in the air. Holds Dean down and keeps his chin clear, nips a line above Dean’s waistband, hip to hip.

Dean shudders. Doubles up his fists and bangs the floor. Sam sucks and tickles. Bypasses Dean’s crotch and sneaks his tongue inside a leg hole. Tugs the fabric with his teeth. Dean bucks against Sam’s hands at his hips. Sam nuzzles Dean’s thighs apart. Buries his face in Dean’s balls, slobbers on him. Wet spots form in Dean’s shorts. He cradles Sam’s face, scratches his scalp, grinds on him. Mumbles affirmation as he watches in the mirror.

Sam’s shaggy head bobbles between his legs. Shimmery shorts in Kansas Jayhawks blue cling perilously to his narrow hips. Back dips. Dean plants his feet, squeezes Sam between his knees. Ruins their reflection but he’d rather feel Sam, slick and solid next to him. Sam starts pulling and Dean hoists his ass up and goosebumps spring all over as Sam strips him. Dean’s cock pulses in anticipation, smears his stomach.

Sam slithers over him, brackets him with knees and elbows. “Be right back.”

Dean sighs, slides his eyes closed and suppresses a snicker imagining Sam’s boner waddle. Long hike to the bedroom, stairs and everything. He almost feels sorry—for himself as much as Sam. Dean’s the one lonely on a drafty floor with his dick in his hand.

“Heads up!”

Dean blinks. Sam’s crouched by his computer with the bag open. He tosses something. Dean catches. “You brought this with you?” Lube. _This fuckin’ kid_. Sam ducks his head, chews on his lip. Turns back the clock to the lanky twink who used to flirt with all the grace of a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robot. Dean swallows hard. “Get over here.” Sam cat-crawls. Dean gets tunnel vision. Blusters, “You laid a trap for me.” He combs Sam’s hair behind his ear and pulls him close. “You entrapped me.”

Sam smiles against his lips. “You’ve been pretty willing prey, to be fair.”

 _Always_. Dean kisses him, like he could swallow Sam whole. Tongues grapple, teeth joust. Lips tug and suck and stubble scrapes. Sam gropes for Dean’s fingers, tries to lock him up again, but Sam’s done getting his own way. Dean tumbles them. Lube goes spinning as they roll and scuffle. Dean pinches Sam’s ass. Sam bites him. Zero finesse. Knees and elbows, hands and mouths. Dean gets Sam down, straddles and grinds his bare dick in Sam’s hip groove. Sam squirms out of his shorts— _finally_ —and Dean pops up, stretches to reach the lost lube when a white-hot spear of pain twists his back in a spasm that makes his eyes tear up and his dick wither.

“Fuck.” Dean grits his teeth, gingerly turns to face Sam. “Cramp.”

Sam puts his hands over his face.

“I can still go. You’re just gonna have to—”

“Do all the work?” He does a peek-a-boo, squints from between his pinkies.

“No!” Dean winces. “Help me get down, huh?” He nods at the mirror. “That way.”

“You sure you’re gonna be able to get back up?” Sam eases out from under him.

Dean manages not to groan. “I’m sure I’m not gonna care after I’m laid.”

Sam snorts, but he helps Dean get situated. “You good?”

“Just pass me that slick.”

“Dude, you’re not gonna try to—”

Dean cuts him off with a _trust-me_ look.

He coaxes Sam into kneeling across his middle, long legs curled at either side. Dean dribbles cool gel on his fingers. “Up.”

“Bossy,” but Sam leans forward.

“Hey, you want this or not?”

“I don’t wanna wait on you hand and foot for a week while your back heals.”

“Aw, Sammy, you really do care.” Dean snakes between Sam’s legs, glides wet, past Sam’s balls, skates his hole. Sam rocks, greedy. Dean rumbles and his back twinges but he presses, Sam hisses. Heat swallows Dean’s finger and he wonders if Sam’s raw from the pounding he took last night.

“Keep going,” which, could either mean no, he’s not sore, or he is but he’s into it. Going by the sawblade sound Sam lets out when Dean stretches him, no way to tell. Sam sits down on him, rocks and tilts and swivels.

Dean stifles a grimace. “Want you to jerk off for me,” he says. “Come riding my hand. Watch yourself in that mirror.” Sam’s shy, bit-lip smile makes a reappearance. Dean curls his fingers like he knows Sam likes it and gets a jolt to his flagging dick from the quake in Sam’s muscles. Sight of Sam’s long neck, head thrown back, trickling sweat and crusted salt. If Dean could sit up he’d lick it. “Come on, Sammy, touch yourself, get yours.”

He fucks with his fingers, pets Sam’s insides, stocks up his spank bank staring at Sam’s tight nipples, flushed chest and flexing abs. His cock sways. Precome shimmers at the tip. Dean finds an angle that makes Sam pitch forward. Fingernails and knuckles rake Dean’s belly; Sam barely gets a hand around himself, and Dean goes for all the marbles. Sam shouts, cusses and shoots all up Dean’s chest. Hot like it should steam. Sam suffocates him. Grasps around Dean’s fingers. Mutters in his hair while they catch their breath.

“Holy shit, Dean,” Sam rasps. Delicately climbs off, hunts up his towel on his hands and knees.

Dean’s back has settled into a dull ache. “Yeah, no kiddin’.” He lets clean him up, get him vertical again. “So…” Dean’s curiosity is killing him. “You just, set me up like this for…”

Sam slips an arm around and Dean leans into his shoulder. “Well, before you threw your back out, grandpa, we were supposed to celebrate.”

Dean ignores the _grandpa_ thing. They shuffle toward the stairs. Chilly in the hall. Dean shivers and pulls Sam tighter. “Celebrate…”

“I found a Men of Letters shell company this afternoon.” Sam’s voice gives a mental image of him bouncing on his toes. “A building trust.”

Dean pauses, eyes him.

“You were stressing about the plumbing, you know?” Sam ducks his head, peeks up through his lashes. “Said it was gonna cost a fortune?”

 _Building trust_. “You’re shittin’ me.”

Sam smiles so wide his back teeth show. “We can’t like, gold plate the toilets or anything, but…”

Dean fights past his pissed-off back to crane and kiss Sam. “Lucky me, in-bed celebrations are my favorite.” Fuckin’, trusty geekboy sidekick to the bitter end.

Sam puts him in sweatpants, puts him on a pile of pillows in front of the TV, and heads off to put canned soup in the microwave. Sam’s room still kinda depresses him. Not a photo, not a good-luck charm. There’s a bunch of sigils, sure, and so many books Dean’s not clear how the library’s not desolate. Hair products line the sink. Soap and razor. _Men of Letters Laws of Initiation_ on his nightstand.

Dean faintly hears the microwave beep. Puts his focus on the onscreen guide. Twilight Zone marathon, that never misses. It loads up just as Sam makes the corner, two bowls and two beers on a tray.

“Old school. Nice.” Sam sets them up, soup and crackers.

Dean starts to bitch—

“We’ll sleep in your room tonight; I’ll change the sheets tomorrow.”

“Remind me to elbow you when you’re not eating soup,” Dean grumbles.

Sam shoots him a dry look. “Shut up and watch TV.”

Dean shrugs and their shoulders bump. “Only ’til I’m back on my feet, Sam, then you’re in trouble.”

Sam scoffs. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

Dean grins into his soup bowl. He can’t wait either.

Sam scares him up a muscle relaxer, holds it hostage over a bottle of Gatorade when Dean would really rather have another beer. He takes their dishes to the kitchen, and Dean’s improved enough to piss on his own. They meet back in Dean’s bed, where Sam arranges pillows under his knees. Fussing, but Dean’s kinda milking, so he can’t judge much.

Sam slides under the covers, folds an arm under his cheek and drapes the other across Dean’s chest. “Okay?”

Dean can’t reach him to kiss him, so he flicks his fingers against Sam’s thigh. Sam’s toothpaste breath washes over him. Leg hair tickles his knuckles and heart pounds at his side. “I’m fine, dude, it’s just a cramp.” Dean yawns.

Sam edges closer, squeezes his hip. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

He is starting to feel it, the pasty-eyed weight of the pill Sam gave him. He burrows his arm under Sam’s neck—hurts, but it’s worth it—scratches around in his hair, free now from its rubber band and still sweat-damp at the roots. “Yeah, all right.” Sam leans into Dean’s fingers. Dean concentrates on letting go of his tension. He’ll be fine in the morning, and if the shit did hit the fan, he could fight through this.

Sam’s breathing evens out, head gets heavy against Dean’s chest. “Night, Sammy.” Mesmerizing. He rests a hand on Sam’s bicep. Sinks into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [masquerade master post is here](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/635531316339884033/masquerade-round-7-master-list-big-love-to)


End file.
